I Know What I Like But I Don't Like What I Know
by Wanna Be Abby
Summary: Set post-S2, ep 8. Alex on where and when she is, and what the heck she's going to have to do to get back to Gene... Rated: K for safety ; Not my greatest tempting summary but pop in and see what you think...


**I Know What I Like But I Don't Like What I Know – An A2A fic**

Like most fans of A2A I was in stunned shock at the S2 finale, but as a dabbling fanfic writer feel compelled to write! Not to make it better, for after all how could I? No, but somehow try to find a way forward. In which ever time line our characters are in.  
I haven't ever written a fic from Alex's perspective before, only as an interested onlooker and more from Gene's POV, so I'd really appreciate your feedback on this one.  
Title from a Genesis song from the 1970's. Gene Hunt, the one I think *I* know, is a bit inclined to them, though he, like myself, thinks they are better now that the arty poncy Gabriel has gone off by himself… ;) Okay, so I'm a big fan of 'Sussudio' and he much prefers 'In The Air Tonight' so I'm splitting the difference on this one.  
Oh, for the lawyers - I own *nothing*. Not Alex, especially not Gene - who ever could?, not the Quattro, nothing, nada, zip, zero. I wrote this to keep my Froggy Muses happy - okay?

Gene – I miss you.

Alex – it's your turn now. Time to do what you need to – but get back and sort this mess out!

**(Cue A2A theme tune)**

Let me tell you a story.

Oh for God's sake, I sound like bloody Val Donnican!

Right, let's start again.

Welcome to my world.

No, that's not going to work either…

Okay, here's what's happened.

I'm here, in 2008. I've finally woken up and seen my daughter. She's alive. And beautiful.

And I'm alive. And not quite so beautiful. It's not just the fact my surgeons have shaved all my hair off – and have they *any* idea how long it took me to grow it to the right length? Honestly…

I've been away, not that anyone here in my life would believe it. As far as Molly, and my surgeons and even Evan – conspicuous by his absence you'll notice – are concerned, I've been lying here with a bullet in my head, just about breathing by myself, but that's about it.

But that's all they know. For the past 16 months in my reckoning, I've been living in the early 1980's. I've met with my parents as an adult, managed to avoid bumping into my 8 year old self until that fateful day they died, discovered all sorts of things I never knew.

For instance, my father quite obviously was in need of some serious psychoanalysis.  
And my mother was well on her way to divorcing him.  
And my godfather, the man who took me in and bought me up in my parent's absence, had an extremely physical affair with my mother.  
And that he, Evan, never told me any of this, or that my father tried to kill my mother and I, but by a quirk of fate I escaped.  
Plus he has covered up the evidence in collusion with a police officer I don't know even exists or not.  
And on top of all this – I really did look quite cute in my school uniform, but I should never have been made to wear that stupid beret.

So, quite a lot has been happening since I've been lying there in that soulless hospital bed.

Ah, yes, and I met my ex as a feckless 12 year old. Peter. Pete.

Once again, what the hell was I thinking?! Perhaps I was reaching out for a father figure, someone to protect me, look after me. A bit of stability. When I first met him – as an adult I hasten to add – I loved how he was so laid back, so relaxed. His parents really liked me too, which made everything just so perfect.

Trouble was I ended up marrying Pete, when I was more in love with his parents. And when he finally took off, leaving me with Molly, who was just a helpless baby, I'll be honest, I didn't really deal with it. No, good old Alex Price, shoving everything to the back of her subconscious, dealing with it later.  
Hating Pete for leaving, but grateful he'd left.  
Hating him for leaving Molly, but thanking the Almighty I'd not have to deal with his lazy backside again.

It didn't drive me to become a man hater, but I was never really able to trust any man who showed an interest.

And so they stopped showing an interest.

What was that Simon and Garfunkel song I used to hear Evan play? 'I am a rock'? It was the line 'I have my poetry and books to protect me/I touch no one and no one touches me' that pretty much describes my life till I got shot.

No real friends, only acquaintances. No invites to the pub on a Friday night, no dates for the weekend. No overtures for a nice quiet lunch.

And in a way I didn't need that, or even want it. I had my work, and I had Molly, I had Evan, metaphorically that is, and that was really all I needed.

All I trusted myself to need.

And then Arthur Layton shot me. Yes, still not quite sure why, but if my life continues on this thread it's on, I well may find out sooner or later.

Frankly, I'm almost grateful to the man. Twisted sickened drugged up loser that he is.

Sorry, did I say that out loud?

By making me face events and people who shaped me as a child, I've been made to deal with events that I think will make me a better person.

Because I worked, for 16 months, with people I grew to love. To care about. To trust. Elements I've been missing in my life for far too long.

And now I'm back, despatched back by a careless, instinctive, lousy aimed shot.

Thanks for that, Guv.

And I think I want to go back. Please. Not for long, just long enough to sort out the mess that's allowed me to come home to Molly.

I've told her I love her. I've held her, and kissed her, and told her at least three times that I love her.

But I have unfinished business at Fenchurch East Police Station. Or possibly, the nearest hospital to King Douglas Lane.

Because they need me. And a lot of me needs them in return.

I need to talk to Chris, to help him through the mistakes he made under the influence of Martin Sommers.

And I need to talk to Shaz, to tell her how much I'm looking forward to being at her wedding. And to help her build a more rewarding career, because she can.

And I even need to talk to Ray, because despite everything I actually like the guy. Yes, he's screwed up about his sexuality and he needs some help there, but I want to help him.

And Viv! God, to talk to Viv, our Skipper, the man with the keys to the evidence rooms and witness to a thousand hung over mornings.

But mostly, I want to talk to Gene. I know he didn't mean to shoot me. God, I'm sure I gave him a million reasons to slap me down and make his trigger finger itchy, but he wouldn't. He just couldn't. Obviously, he *has*, but that was a stray shot, aimed at Janette, honey trap material I spotted at a mile off. But he didn't mean to, and he wouldn't. In any other circumstances.

And the tables have turned.

Back in 1981 and 1982, I needed Gene Hunt.  
He saved my 8 year old self, led me away from the explosion that killed my parents.  
He saved my adult self, when we were shot at in Luigi's, and when the younger Arthur Layton had Shaz at gunpoint.  
Okay, so the latter was a bit too Miami Vice for my tastes, but men will be boys. I'll let him have that one.

He drove me mad, but I love him anyway.

Ah, did I actually say that out loud? I didn't mean too.

By 'I love him' I mean, well, I'm not quite sure.  
I trust him. In spite of it being his shot that bought me back to 2008, I still trust him. Implicitly. Sober, drunk, injured, hung over, sick as a dog, fighting fit, I trusted him with my life.  
And I'd do it again in a heartbeat.

He may have been as obvious as dog on heat that he was – is – physically attracted to me, but he never acted on it. Many times, there we were drunk as skunks, left alone in Luigi's, and a couple of times in my flat – god, how I miss my little flat – and he never laid a hand on me. I very vaguely remember holding his hand a couple of times, and I definitely remember him holding me in that secret sealed vault. I did think we were going to die, and he was a total gentleman about the whole thing, never letting his hands wander inadvertently in the darkness.  
Would he have kissed me if our rescue party hadn't arrived at that moment? It's a thought I've allowed myself to toy with occasionally.

Okay, *more* than occasionally if you want me to be honest.

He looked after me in a way that means more to me than he'll ever know.

He cared – cares? – about me in a way that's been total unique to my life. He cares enough to know when to let me scream and shout at him, and when I need bringing back to some semblance of normality.  
He cares enough to make sure I get home safely after a night at Luigi's – okay, not the most arduous of journey's but I rarely went home unaccompanied, and even when we'd argued I always knew he was making sure I got home in one piece.

Life is going to be a lot quieter now I'm back with Molly.  
No late night conversations over another dubious bottle of red wine, no more scallops with pineapple rings, no more knocks on my door to announce the arrival of an obstreperous Mancunian.  
No more laughing and singing along with the radio with Shaz, no more gentle coo-ing over the Shaz and Chris romance, and no more barging into the men's toilets to berate Ray over something.

Yet, how can I stay here?  
Molly needs me, that's why.  
My life is here.  
I know the things I need to know to move on with my life.  
I can work with people in a more positive way. I can start to build proper relationships with colleagues and maybe make friends again.  
It won't be easy, but this is where and when I've wanted to be for the past 16 months, and now I'm back.  
Safe.

Terrible hair cut, and total loss of any tan I might have been working on, not to mention probably way behind with my book, but safe.

And with Molly.

Of course there will have to be a very difficult conversation with Evan, as I now know the truth about him and my mother and what actually happened to cause their deaths. However, that will have to be. I need some closure – and I think Evan does too.

Oh God! Why is this so difficult? I am home. You are home, Bols….

Bols.

Bolly.

Drake.

And very occasionally, and on those occasions, to be remembered and treasured, Alex.

I have to get back.

I have to leave.

I know what Sam Tyler knew.

And I understand.

Here is now. Is real. Painfully real. And it's where Molly is.

But I have to go back.

I have to return.

I needed him – and he helped me.

I'm not sure my reasons are totally pure in motive, but I need to go back.

Gene Hunt saved me, and now I need to go back.

Because he needs me.

And I need him.


End file.
